The Last Steeple
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "..Because he could feel it, the slow smothering burn building in the back of his chest; the squeezing pressure. It wouldn't be long now. ...It wouldn't be-…"


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Nor to I own any of the literary works mentioned within this fiction. ("The Danse Macabre" & "O Death.") Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my fill response to prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "_How do they die? Is it the walkers, or other survivors? Is there anyone who dies of old age, or someone who can't take it anymore?__ A 'what if' story." _*****Rated for: adult language, adult situations, allusions to two separate heterosexual relationships, and character death.

**The Last Steeple**

He shifted in his chair. Body tight with discomfort as his blurry eyes carefully surveyed the length of camp _once_, then _twice_, making sure to place everyone within the sphere of the clearing before he let himself relax. Setting the binoculars to the side as he wiped a shaky hand across his forehead, flicking the dripping salt tracks to the side when the inside of his palm came back sweat slicked and far too damning. His head lolled, chin dipping down towards his chest for a long moment before he forced himself to straighten. The muscles twinging in protest as he tensed beneath the crushing weight of his own skin. .._It was getting hard to concentrate._

He hadn't left the roof of the RV for quite some time now. And he reckoned that by this point he probably never would. Reality, as people were prone to say, was a less then virtuous mistress. He let a hand run through his thin grey hair, smoothing it down habitually as he set his hat to the side. - It was no longer a question of _if_, it was _when_...

- Because he could feel it, the slow smothering burn building in the back of his chest; the squeezing pressure. It wouldn't be long now._ ...It wouldn't be-…_

He closed his eyes for a long moment. - He'd already waved Daryl away when he'd come to relieve him from his turn on watch. The younger man already half up the ladder before he could so much as finish his explanation. - Full of piss and vinegar as always. His voice had been strong when he'd told the man not to worry about it, that he was good for another three hour stretch. But somehow he had a feeling that the younger Dixon knew.

There had been something in the way the man had looked at him, those light blue eyes boring into his, unblinking and enviously steady as his gaze had roved across the length of him. Looking for all the world like a predator taking in the image of his prey. – Only _this_ time something in the younger man's eyes had given away. Dissolving back into the depths of memory, as distrust and well wrought hardness parted ways; sweeping back to reveal something akin to that of understanding. It was a look shared between that of two men, one that spoke of respect and deference. A look that harkened back to an older and far more simple way of life. A time where the measure of a man had not been marked by that of the balance of his bank account or the type of car he drove, but by that of his mettle; his inner worth.

Three months ago he would have sworn that such a sight would have been nothing more then a contradiction, a trick of the light, or even a salacious allusion. But now he knew better. - It was a revelation for which he felt both infinitely _richer _for discovering, and inherently _foolish_ for simply assuming in the first place.

_The age old adage of not judging a book by it's cover certainly came to mind.._

Because instead of speaking, the man had only nodded, holding his gaze for a long moment before he disappeared from sight, jumping off the ladder and shouldering his crossbow as he cut across camp. Snagging Glenn by the shoulder as he passed and gesturing off towards the tree line. Flicking an errant thumb over his shoulder in clear invitation as the two of them set off to catch dinner.

And if his jaw hadn't been aching so badly he knew would have smiled at the sight of that unabashedly eager grin that had spread across his kid's face. Nearly tripping over his own feet as he grabbed his pack and hurried to catch up, sending him a jaunty little wave before they disappeared into the tree line. - Not really noticing when he didn't return it. …_He couldn't._

Because there was a strange weakness growing in his limbs now, a sensation that went hand in hand with the vice-like pressure spreading down from his chest. Tightening the muscles and tendons as the strange, deadening sensation gradually enveloped the length of him. – His body pulled impossibly tight, almost as if he was suffocating from the inside out.

He sighed. Wincing as the exclamation came out sounding worrisome shallow. Airing out breathy and weak in the thick afternoon air as he sunk deeper in his seat, limbs restless as he tried to find a more comfortable position; anything to ease the growing tightness in his chest.

Somewhere in the near distance, Carl giggled. - Flitting around camp as bright as a fire cracker on the fourth of July, echoing out in a race track mess of over exuberant youth and effervescent good humor. A representation of their future, as well as their past all wrapped up into one young, but admittedly quite promising little package. – But more then anything he hoped that the boy would hold onto that, that easy joy; serving as a reminder of better times, and of the possibility for change.

…God knows he wouldn't be around to see it. _Not this time._

And oddly, the whole thing reminded him of something Martin Luther King Junior had once said, proclaiming somewhat over confidently that "a man who won't die for something is not fit to live." - It was utter and complete foolishness in his opinion. As while he respected the man and his message to the ends of the earth, the older he became, the more he couldn't help but feel that for all his political prowess and oratory genius, that the man had _completely_ missed the point.

Because what King had failed to realize was that not all men are destined to die so _extraordinarily.. _Some like himself, were either doomed, or perhaps even blessed with a death of relative obscurity. He supposed it all came down to ones personal perspective on the matter. – But either way, he figured that given the nature of the last half a year, he was certainly in good company.

Personally, if one was on the topic. He preferred the discourse of the medieval poets who had spoken directly to the Grim Reaper himself; confronting death through rhyming couplets and poetic verse. Suiting his more antiquated tastes, even as it dug right down to the very source. Exemplifying the meaning with both class and gumption. - Representing the heart of mankind's struggle with death, not by focusing on _how_ people died, but rather how on they'd_ lived_.

Such poems like that of the Appalachian Folksong fittingly titled: "Oh Death," where the author pleads for another year of life. Or that of "The Danse Macabre" where in the first verse, death and a young shepherdess court each other as she lies dying. With death eventually wooing her towards her final rest as she bids farewell to a life she had barely begun to live. Departing the living world together, like that of lovers stealing away into the night. It was almost romantic, in a grisly sort of way.

In a short, he'd take the dime store poets of the forgotten centuries over the so called _enlightened_, new aged wanna-be's _any_ day. He found them to be a far more accurate representation of the meaning of such things as life and death. Being works written by those who actually _knew _first hand how precarious the balance between them could be.

_Ironic how things seemed to have come remarkably full circle in that regard…_

He couldn't help but smile at the thought. Irma had often joked that he'd always been something of a dramatic. After all she'd always been the sure one. Like the foundation on a house that went all the way down to bedrock; firm, strong, and absolutely unbreakable. Whereas he likened himself more to towards the analogy of a roof, strong and all encompassing, but nothing more then angled plywood and a pock marked dart board of insulation and naked wiring without the structure of the house itself. - Listless and bereft of purpose.

_God he missed her._

He wasn't exactly sure when he'd first felt it. Perhaps it had been more of a gradual thing then anything else. Or maybe it had simply been there all along. …_Building._ Waiting until they'd reached a modicum of safety in their current home, now settled deep in the mountain brush within the protective curve of an abandoned logging camp. Close enough to a nearby town to scavenge supplies, but far enough away from the roving hordes that they'd had only a few sightings since they'd arrived. - Either way, he figured that the source of the feeling didn't much matter; simply the inescapable reality of the end result.

…_Because he could feel it._

The irony of it was that he'd outlived even the doctor's most generous estimations, cheating death by at least six months now if his calculations were correct. Without surgery the cardiac surgeons had told him he had maybe three months; perhaps a little longer with strict dieting and hospital supervision. He needed stints, at least two of them to clear the eighty and seventy percent blockages in his main arteries. It was a basic surgery if anything, at least as basic as open heart surgery could be. But as far as he'd been concerned at the time, one near heart attack had been more then enough for him.

He'd been a week away from his appointment when the world had gone and ended on them. And the last he'd seen of his hospital was the plume of smoke he'd left behind in his rear view mirrors. Unable to watch as his town, his home, _their home _had been enveloped in flame. – Destroyed in a city wide fire that had raged on for days, eventually burning itself into out when there had been nothing left for it to consume. – There had been no one left alive to put it out.

And in a weird way, once the frustration and pathetic irony of the situation had faded, he'd decided to consider himself blessed. _After all why not? _He'd survived the end _twice_ now. Not many people can say that, not even these days. – If anything he figured it was a point of pride.

He'd promised Irma that he'd live on. That he'd find someone else and be happy. But the truth was that he hadn't been that far behind her. In his mind it was fitting, appealing to the hidden romantic in him that still believed in such things as true love, soul mates, and happy endings.

But at least he'd tried. Doing his best to make good on that promise as he'd set out in the RV on that cross country road trip they'd always talked about doing. Taking on the continental USA in a rickety old Winnebago with an attitude problem and hundred and one things he somehow hadn't gotten around to fixing when he'd actually had the chance.

…_And then there had been Andrea. _

He hissed as an unexpected burst of pain arrowed down the length of his arm. The gun in his lap lurching sideways as his grip began to loosen. ..._Christ.. _- It wasn't the pain that got to him. Not really. _It was the pressure_. It felt like a vice was slowly being clamped down across his chest. It wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. He was grateful for that. It wasn't often these days that someone was granted such a luxury. – But still, he couldn't deny the fact that it felt a lot like he was suffocating in his own skin.

He shook away of bout of light headedness, blinking owlishly as he surveyed the area around camp. Forcing his eyes to focus until he'd appeased himself that everything was still as it should be. - A light breeze gusted across his heated skin as he angled his head into the wind, reveling in the simplicity of the moment as he fingered the warm stock of his shotgun. Eyes caught on the resulting gleam as the metal reflected in the warm Georgian sun.

_He hoped Andrea would forgive him. - If anything that was his only regret. Leaving.._

He exhaled softly as he reached upwards. Rummaging about for long moment until his trembling fingers finally closed around his prize. - The worn piece of tissue paper crinkling audibly in the near silence as he slowly fished it out from the depths of his shirt pocket. Unfolding it gently as he smoothed the dark pink paper across the unsteady surface of his jittery left knee, his body a tangled up mess of nervous tics, and slowly relaxing muscles as his circulation began to slow. Cells starving as his heart began to fail.

The dull, glint of his wedding band seemed remarkably stark when set against the vivacious, rose hued scrap of wrapping paper. The same piece he'd rescued from the ground where Amy had taken her last breaths, abandoned in the chaos and grief of the encompassing hours. - Standing out like a waning beacon from future that had long since passed them by. A reminder of what _should _have happened, but_ hadn't_.

He'd wanted to give it to Andrea, but in the aftermath feared that she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand that there was _always_ room for hope, and that that one perfect possible future wasn't as impossible as it seemed. So he'd kept it safe. Safe in the same way he kept his wedding band polished and firmly affixed on his ring finger long after he'd put Irma to rest. - Because he hadn't kept it for himself, he'd kept it for _her. _He only hoped it would serve as a reminder of that truth long after he was gone.

He let the delicate piece of paper curl in his fist, ghosting across the vulnerable dips of his callous ridden palms as his pulled it protectively into his chest. - A grateful smile already flirting with the lilting angles of his blue tinged lips as his heart pulled impossibly tight within the confines of his aching torso.

He exhaled softly. - The wind caressing his face like a gentle reminder as his lashes fluttered, hooding his eyes against the warm afternoon sun as his lids grew heavy.

…_It was time._

And the last thing he heard before his eyes drifted closed, was the sound of Andrea's laughter floating in the heady, afternoon breeze. Melodic, pitch thick, and unmistakably genuine as the echoes lulled him down into the darkness. Bringing light unto the shadowed course of oblivion as if Death himself were leading the way…

_She would understand... She had to._

**A/N:** This is the first time I have written this kind of prompt. So far I am pretty sure I have cried 17 times over. - Please let me know what you think. I am thinking of doing more, maybe even one for each character. What do you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"_A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist."__ - __Stewart Alsop_


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